


coastline.

by littlestormwitch



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: AU, Epistolary, F/M, Quite Out of Character, grishaverse but make it regency era where they send each other soft letters, mention of darklina, this is just me being soft for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlestormwitch/pseuds/littlestormwitch
Summary: Dear Zoya,if I could go back in time, I would ruin that letter myself just to talk with you again.Sturmhond.
Relationships: Nikolai Lantsov/Zoya Nazyalensky
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. my dearest alina,

**Author's Note:**

> is the calendar even the same in the grishaverse? i have no idea. i don't know how this idea came to me, i'm not even sure it's any good, i just missed writing about them.
> 
> [work title: hollow coves, coastline]

October 1st.

_My dearest Alina,_

_how’s the countryside? How was the sea?  
People are still talking about your wedding here at palace, and despite being terribly happy for you I can’t help but miss you. Should I call you Mrs. Morozova now?  
I do hope everything’s going great, and that you’re enjoying your life as newly wed! Try not to forget about your friends while you’re away, especially not the most charming one of them.  
Do not let me distract you by your disgustingly sweet husband any further, this letter is solely for the purpose of making sure you’re all right and arrived to destination safe and sound. And Genya insisted I was the one to send the letter. Hopefully it won’t cause a scandal, another man writing to the merry bride!_

_With affection and love,  
Yours, Sturmhond._

* * *

October 3rd.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_I’m sorry to report that your letter addressed to_ Alina Morozova _has been damaged before arriving at our post, and therefore has not been shipped yet. I’ll take personally care of the next one you send our way and I apologise for the inconvenience._

_Best regards,  
Zoya Nazyalensky._


	2. best regards,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an exam in [checks watch] 15 minutes: time to add the chapter i forgot to add yesterday!

October 5th.

_Dear Miss Nazyalensky,_

_I would like to thank you for the notice. I now lost count of the times a letter has been lost or damaged! Is it safe to assume you just started working at the post?  
Thank you again,_

_Yours truly,  
Sturmhond._

* * *

October 9th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_is it a Palace custom to ask about a stranger’s work?  
Nevertheless, you’re right; I just moved in my aunt’s inn, and as I don’t like to simply sit around I decided to help. I’m glad my decision has been helpful to you._

_Best regards,  
Zoya Nazyalensky._


	3. it sounds like a pirate name,

October 11th.

_Dear Miss Nazyalensky,_

_my apologies, I didn’t mean to pry.  
Despite my previous statement, I’m gonna pry again; is there a particular reason you’re living with your aunt? I’ll understand if I don’t get an answer, I’m just curious on why a young woman (I did ask the boy that carries our letters to confirm my idea: I know you’re young) would take a decision as such._

_Yours truly,  
Sturmhond._

* * *

October 14th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_there is a reason indeed. But first I have to ask if Sturmhond is truly your name. It sounds like a pirate name, and – you may correct me if I’m wrong – a palace doesn’t seem like the place for a pirate. The fact that you also asked a boy to spy on a young woman on your behalf could make me think the palace is not the place for you._

_ZN._


	4. would you consider curiosity your fatal flaw?

October 17th.

_Dear Miss Nazyalensky,_

_it is indeed a pirate’s name. Unfortunately, I myself am not a pirate. Nor a privateer, if you were wondering. The sea has always been a dream of mine, but alas I have duties to attend to.  
I think you might be right, Miss ~~Zoya~~ Nazyalensky, the palace is not the place for me, but it’s not a life I can easily escape. We all do what we have to, don’t we?  
I wish you to know you don’t have to answer all my questions; I’m curious by nature, and sometimes I fail to notice when I ask too much – especially to someone I don’t know._

~~_With affection,_ ~~

_Sturmhond._

* * *

October 19th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_is a life worth living when you wish to escape it?  
I used to think so. I left my village after things went down with my mother – something not worth mentioning. My aunt is the only living relative I knew of, and she took me in gladly. Now I have all I need, and gained a freedom I never had before. Perhaps it will come to you too, at some point.  
I learned long ago to not ask questions, my aunt said it gives me a mysterious aura, as if I don’t need people to tell me things about them, I already know. I don’t, and I’m slowly trying to do better.  
Would you consider curiosity your fatal flaw?_

_Sincerely,_

_ZN._


	5. "intimidating despite being pretty"

October 23rd.

_Dear Miss Nazyalensky,_

_I pride myself on not having flaws, but if I had to look for one, curiosity would be it. Do not think of me as vain now, but I discovered that if you know how to appreciate yourself, then you won’t need those around you to do so – therefore, you won’t find disappointment. At least, that’s how things work here: everyone asks an unreachable perfection from you, and you never do things right. It used to destroy me, but after the war I learned to not care too much. It’s not the life I wanted, it’s true, but I manage to make it work as best as I can. And maybe that makes it worth living.  
Your aunt seems to be right: I’ve been told that the poor mail boy is scared to look at you. He might’ve described you as “intimidating despite being pretty”. I have to take his words for true._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

October 26th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_your life seems tiring. Is it like this for everyone or do they observe you particularly closely for your pirate name? It’s been a while since I met someone that lived through the war and still managed to keep their spirits up. You might not care much, but it’s admirable.  
There seem to be a hidden question in your statement. Am I not too low for palace standards? _

_Sincerely,  
ZN._

* * *

October 27th.

_Miss Zoya,_

_I never cared for palace standards, but I’d never think of you as too low for them._

_Sturmhond._


	6. tell me another truth.

November 2nd.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_was that a compliment?_

_Zoya._

* * *

November 5th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_it was the truth._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

November 7th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_tell me another truth._

_Zoya._

* * *

  
November 9th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_if I could go back in time, I would ruin that letter myself just to talk with you again._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

November 13th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_has the war changed you?_

_Zoya._


	7. how do you approach life now?

November 16th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_I think the war changes everything and everyone, but if you’re wondering whether or not this has always been the way I talk to people, the answer is yes. I prefer plain honesty rather than guess if what the other person said is what I understood, and I like to do the same.  
 ~~It did, however, make me reconsider how I approach life~~._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

November 18th.

_Mr. Sturmhond,_

_how do you approach life now?_

_Zoya._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this


	8. the wars never cease. the problems never stop.

November 23rd.

_Dear Zoya,_

_was I too foolish in hoping you wouldn’t read that, or did a part of me know that I wanted to tell you about it?  
As I mentioned, I firmly believe war changes everything, including my perspective on life. I was young – still am, in case you were wondering – and I saw people even younger than me die for a country that has done the bare minimum for them. I held hands as the soldiers realised they were living their final moments, and cleaned faces stained with blood that hid the calm of their expression when the pain finally ceased. I heard screams from the other fronts, desperate cries for help as one of theirs was hit by one of ours and the same thing happened next to me.  
And I lost my dearest, oldest friend. More than a friend, really. He was my punishment when we were young – nine years old or so, I misbehaved terribly and my parents thought that since hitting me wasn’t going to do the trick, watch someone else be hit because of my behaviour would calm me down. It did, but it also helped us – Dominik and I – create a bond so deep it out my own brother into shame. Then we were twelve and I was with his family when his older brother was enlisted, and when we were sixteen we did the same. We trained together at Poliznaya, he was there for my first bullet and I was there for his last. We were at the battle of Halmhend, fighting side by side, but when he got shot there was no one else that could help him. He was dying and he told me a story, the story of Andrei Zhirov, a radical when my grandfather was alive. They tried to hang him, and the rope broke, making him roll into the ditch that was going to be his grave. It was Dominik’s last moment, and he used it to tell me a story. I’d heard many soldiers cry, and yet I still had the idea that no soldier should cry, that ~~pr~~ I should not weep, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’ll remember his last words forever, but if you don’t mind I’d like to keep them to myself – our little secret, Dominik’s and mine. But when he was already gone, I promised him that I’ll do better, just like I had when we were kids. I promised him to find a way; I did not know what I meant back then, but years have passed and now I know. I witnessed thousands of deaths since then, had nightmares about the battlefields I walked and survived, and yet my promise to him is what still haunts me and keeps me going. This is my country, and I love it, but I know it is broken, and I’ve seen the way it breaks people in return. The wars never cease. The trouble never stops. My promise to him makes me believe that I will find a way to make it better.   
I’m not able to describe how I approach life now, but I hope that this explains it overall. A part of me still hopes it will change, a part of me wants to make some change. _

_Sturmhond._

* * *

November 26th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_thank you for trusting me with your story. I don’t think it was easy to write all that happened, but I’m glad you did. Believe me when I say I don’t throw words like “admiration” around very easily, but do know that I admire you.  
And yet I can’t help but wonder: are you really that influential at palace? I’d expect no less of you. People like me don’t make change. I might think someone like you can._

_Zoya._

_P.S. the sea brings us many things, and I thought that since you can’t go to it, something from it can come to you._


	9. what's your story?

November 29th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_my status doesn’t make me more capable of change than you._

_Sturmhond._

_P.S. I’d look at the seashell and think of you, not the sea._

* * *

December 1st.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_it does. If I were able to make something, I wouldn’t be living so far from home with my aunt._

_Zoya._

* * *

December 3rd.

_Dear Zoya,_

_what’s your story?_

_Sturmhond._


	10. i have no power to stop it.

December 7th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_I think it’s only fair to tell you what happened to me, given that you trusted me enough with your story.  
I come from a small village where I lived with just my mother – I never met my father, and my mother never told me what happened to him. I know that they were married and they were happy, so I never imagined he left us. I wanted her love desperately, and I did everything I could to gain it – it wasn’t enough. She wanted to profit (this is the only word I can think of that explains the situation) off me. I’m not vain, but I know my beauty. My marriage was planned when I was nine, to a wealthy widower from my village – Valentin Grankin. My aunt was the only one who tried to convince my mother to get me out of that situation, but the conversation heated up and she told my mother she was selling me. Of course it was true, but my mother banished her from the house. When the day of the wedding arrived, my aunt was there. She was furious, but no one batted an eye when Grankin tried to beat her. She fought back, the man died and I had to run away alone. I’ve hid and ran for years.  
When I was thirteen I was travelling with some merchants – a woman had found me sleeping in the woods and gave me food and shelter. I was around thirteen years old. The merchants had captured three tiger cubs, I suspect they wanted to sell them, but at night I heard their mother cry outside the camp and I tried to free them. I would like to say it was because of my gentle heart, but they reminded me of myself – locked in a cage and ready to be sold to someone who was going to mistreat them, if not worst. Another tiger – a male, I don’t know why but he went straight for the cubs. I panicked, I know I should’ve screamed for help, or ran away, but all I could think to do was cover the cubs with my body. When it attacked, his claws went through my coat and my skin, but I was protecting the cubs and I couldn’t really feel the pain in that moment. I knew I was being tore open, but the cubs were safe. One of the merchants – the woman’s husband, or her son, I’m not sure – killed the tiger that attacked me, and then helped me back to the tent where I was stitched up – the cubs were back with their mother. I gained eight scars no one but them and my aunt has ever seen. You might be the second person I told this story to, and I suppose writing it down is easier than saying it aloud. I stayed with them for years, but one day we arrived here and my aunt recognised me, so I stayed with her. _

_If I were able to make some change, no other girl would be in my position, but I know that it happens and that I have no power to stop it. I saved myself, I saved the cubs, and then? I ran and kept running. And maybe your status wouldn’t help either, but I’m sure the king could do something about it. I don’t want to be delusional, nothing will completely stop it, not even the king. But it would help. I don’t know how close you are to the man, nor I want to be judged harshly for my words – but it’s a situation I lived myself, I know what I’m talking about. I hope you understand._

_Zoya._

* * *

December 11th.

_~~My~~ Dear Zoya,_

_~~You’re~~  
I’m sure our king would understand too. Believe me when I say he wants to be better than those who came before him. He wants to outsmart them, set the country right – is it too arrogant?_

_Sturmhond._


	11. then I am safe with you.

December 14th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_it’s foolish. Ideas are not actions. He’s young, he’ll realise there’s much more to do than try._

_Zoya._

* * *

December 17th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_isn’t everything built on ideas? Have a little faith, I promise it’ll be alright._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

December 19th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_you seem pretty confident. How close are you to the king? Am I risking to be listed as enemy of the kingdom?_

_Zoya._

* * *

December 21st.

_Dear Zoya,_

_pretty close, but your words are safe with me._

_Sturmhond._

* * *

December 24th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_then_ I _am safe with you._

_Zoya._

_P.S. my aunt has found this seashell and told me it’s the same colour of my eyes. Will you think of me when you see this too?_


	12. are you real?

December 27th.

_Dear Zoya,_

_how come you trust me so easily?_

_Sturmhond._

* * *

December 29th.

_Dear Sturmhond,_

_I’m wondering the same thing._  
For what I told you I guess you can imagine I don’t easily trust people. Something in your words made me do that – maybe the fact that I don’t know what you look like helps. Or the fact that I know Sturmhond is not your name. It’s like you’re not real, and you’re the ~~most beautiful~~ nicest thing that has happened to me in a very long time. When I write to you or read your responses it’s like I’m living an illusion, something that exists outside this life, somewhere I’ve never been hurt. It’s silly.  
Are you real?

_Zoya._


	13. you reminded me what's real

January 3rd.

_My dear Zoya,_

_I started writing this letter five times now, then threw it into the fire.  
I am real. I lied. You’re right.  
My name is not Sturmhond, I’m not just someone that lives in the palace, and of course I’m pretty close to the king. I know I’ve said to you that I prefer to say things how they are, and yet I cannot bring myself to write those words. I’m afraid that you might not trust me, I’m more afraid you might not believe me. But mostly, I’m afraid you won’t want to have anything to do with me. I’m afraid to lose you. When people look up at me they don’t see Sturmhond, they see an authority and they’re scared, so they never speak their mind. I very much doubt you’d do the same even with my real self – despite Sturmhond being the truest part of me – but I enjoyed your words too much to risk. Was that too selfish of me? I hope you will forgive me. Know that everything I told you is real, know that I mean everything I told you, and even if I abused of your trust, I’m glad I had it for some time.  
You said that talking with me makes you believe you’re living an illusion, but for me there hasn’t been something as real and strong as this in quite a long time. You reminded me what’s real, Zoya. I hope you still believe me. I hope this doesn’t end. I hope you won’t see me any differently. I hope so many things, but mostly not to ask too much of you. I’ll understand either way.  
You’re a strong, amazing, beautiful woman, Zoya, someone I’d want ~~next to me~~ in my life – someone anyone should want in their life, despite no one deserving it. You, deserving _you _.  
What you said is true: you are safe with me, I’ll always make sure of that, no matter what you decide to do with my confession. Is it a confession? I don’t even know.  
Please, forgive me._

_Yours,  
Nikolai Lantsov._

_P.S. I do think of you when I see the seashells, all the time. I try and imagine your eyes, and I cannot find peace because it’s just in my head._


	14. you know me, sturmhond

January 23rd.

_Dear ~~Nikolai~~ Sturmhond,_

_I won’t lie to you, I thought I wasn’t going to reply. What was the point anyway?  
Your words were beautiful, and I understand you, and yet I’ve been angry. Still am. Words are not actions, as I’ve already said.  
But I haven’t stopped trusting you. A part of me tells me that I should – that part of me that imagined you as someone with red hair, green eyes and a broken nose. And yet I cannot: you trusted me enough, and I can only do the same with you. You know me, Sturmhond, I don’t know how or why, but you seem to truly know me. Completely. You may not know what my eyes look like, or the exact shape of my nose, how bad the scars on my back really are – but you know _me _.  
Do I know you? I know the broken boy, the one that saw how awful life is and yet carried on, still hopeful. I know the man that crosses words when he thinks he’s overstepping, thinking I won’t notice or really care. I know the man that silently made me promises without me knowing. I know the man that didn’t pity me for my story, but understood how much it took me to tell it – and didn’t shy away from it. I know the king that pretended to be just a soldier, a pirate, a privateer, that loves the sea but loves his country more. Do I know all of you or just a part? I know that I don’t care.  
You’ll always be Sturmhond to me, I’ll always be honest with you. Can you do the same?_

_Yours,  
ZN._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't want this to end :(


	15. february 13th - epilogue

_February 13 th._

The black haired woman wandered the beach like a lost sailor.

That morning she’d woke up to the sun creeping into her room. She’d asked her aunt to take the day off, and the older woman had given her a long look before smiling. _I can manage without you for a day_.  
She walked barefoot on the shore, high waves crashing in the distance, more delicate ones hitting the edge of her coat and weighting it down. She closed her eyes, still walking, letting the wind carry her around, dancing to the whistle in her ears. She’d found herself more often on the beach, foolishly hoping to not be alone anymore, but with a not-pirate by her side. She scolded herself for her thought – he was busy enough, wasn’t he?  
With a sigh, she sat down. Her hair were wild around her head, mimicking the motion of the waves over her shoulders, the sea-salted air kissing her cheeks and lips. She looked up at the winter sun, not burning but still bright and inhaled deeply.

How many hours did she spend there, simply listening to the ocean calling her name, _chanting_?  
She opened her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the calmness that crashed against the chaos in her head, like the waves against the shore. Reality overcame her, and she got on her feet quickly, wondering why she’d been standing there so long, and turned to head back.  
She watched as the breath got caught in his throat, how her own came out raggedly. Their eyes locked, and she tried to force herself to move. He was smiling, and she nearly wept with joy.  
 _I_ _imagined you as someone with red hair, green eyes and a broken nose.  
_ She was faced with a head of golden blond hair, shining hazel eyes and a sightly crooked nose.  
 _You’re a strong, amazing, beautiful woman, Zoya._  
If only he’d known how right he was. If only he’d been prepared for her beauty, for the way her whole face lit up in a smile. _I try and imagine your eyes, and I cannot find peace because it’s just in my head._ How striking they were, looking at him from afar and yet so bright he knew exactly not even nacre could compare and do her justice.  
They reached for each other slowly, like dreamers in a mist, afraid that they would wake up if they moved too fast, and the other wouldn’t be there anymore. The ocean tuned out, leaving just their breaths as music to this slow dance. One step. Two. Shallow breathings, three steps.  
When they were closer, she craned her neck to look at him, and smiled fondly. _Her Sturmhond._

“Hi,” she murmured, her hand reaching forward like a blind man searching for something to hold on to. He felt his heart skip a beat at her raspy voice, like she’d stood too long in the wind – she probably had. He’d watched her when he’d got there, her aunt telling him where he could find her, and she’d stood perfectly still for so long he’d imagined she’d become one with her surroundings. _Her Zoya, such a peaceful picture_.  
“Hello,” he replied with gentleness, and his fingers reached hers. His touch was delicate, his voice sweet. Their fingers intertwined slowly, taking their time, making sure they were real, making sure it was happening. _It was an illusion. It was real. Was it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end?
> 
> i'd like to thank everyone who gave me feedback as i posted because it really means a lot to me, and i appreciate every single one of you. thank you so so so much.
> 
> stay safe, lou


End file.
